


The Heart of a Poet

by frankenberger



Series: Ballads for the White Wolf [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Sex, Geralt grunts a lot, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Jaskier is the most precious cinnamon roll, Kissing, M/M, Mild Domination, Oral Sex, Pining, Post-Season/Series 01, Pretentious elven ballads, Scar Worship, Sequel, Toss a coin to your witcher, oh valley of penis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:08:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22279183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankenberger/pseuds/frankenberger
Summary: A sequel toThe Stars Above the Path.Jaskier is doing what he does best, wooing the courtesans at the Passiflora in the free city of Novigrad. The sacking of Cintra has passed, and the battle of Sodden Hill. Weeks and weeks without word of Geralt, so he's drinking and screwing his way through the pain.Until a towering scowl with legs comes to remind him of what really matters.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Ballads for the White Wolf [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1603636
Comments: 15
Kudos: 789





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You don't really need to have read [The Stars Above the Path](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22084264/chapters/52703491) before this one, but it'll provide some context. Hope you enjoy my second foray into this amazing ship. I heart these boys so much, you have no idea.

“Beautiful ladies. Fairest ladies,” The bard said, with a wink. “You grace me with your attentions.”

It was early enough in the evening that it would be more accurate to call it an afternoon, but Jaskier had already begun his foray into the impressive wine cellars of the Passiflora. Three of the brothel’s most beautiful courtesans had begged a song from him in the brief lull between patrons, and they gathered close around him on the velvet couches as he tuned his lute. Who was he to argue? They were all dark-haired, attentive, and aesthetically enhanced with varying degrees of elven heritage. This was as worthy an audience as any, especially if he could tempt one or more of them into the bedchamber.

Since he had arrived, Jaskier had spurned the platinum-haired beauties who received his usual attentions in a quest to avoid anything that reminded him of the one he loved. A song or two and a bottle of chilled Beauclair white would distract him quite admirably this night.

He strummed an opening chord, choosing an old elven ballad to better woo these lovely Aen Seidhe and perhaps take a crown or two off their steep asking price.

" _Yviss, m'evelien vente cáelm en tell_

_Elaine Ettariel_

_Aep cor me lode deith ess'viell_ ”

His voice was pure and true as he wove the tale of the beautiful Ettariel, and the enchanted flower she bestowed upon her beloved. He was but a novice in the Elder Speech, but he had labored hard to master every syllable of this haunting melody. He only hoped it was as impressive to these ladies.

“ _Yn blath que me darienn_

_Aen minne vain tegen a me yn toin av muireánn_

_Que dis eveigh e aep llea..._ ”

A tall, dark shadow appeared before him, causing him to lose his concentration on the complicated tune. He glanced up from his lute in alarm, only to see a towering scowl with legs. The famed Geralt of Rivia. Fuck.

“Geralt!” He cried, covering up his fumbled chord with a finishing flourish and trying not to appear too flustered.

“ _Ceádmil, taedh_.” Geralt greeted him in flawless Elder Speech. Jaskier guessed by the Witcher’s expression that this was meant as a slight upon his pronunciation, but it seemed more teasing than malice. Geralt had found him, against all odds. His heart leapt in his chest, but he somehow managed to keep it from escaping from his lips and laying all his secrets bare.

“Ladies,” Jaskier began. “This is he, the great Witcher of whom I spoke to you before. _Gwynbleidd_ , in the Elder tongue. The White Wolf.”

He thoroughly butchered the word, and the bard knew that he was laying it on a bit thick. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop. Even if these girls thought him a fool, he was still a fool with crowns in his purse. In the Passiflora, money was really all that counted.

“You are a hard man to find,” Geralt said, without preamble. He settled himself on the sofa beside one of the girls without so much as a glance in her direction. He had left off his armor for once. His black shirt exposed the bare flesh of his throat, the first wisps of hair upon his chest. “Every innkeeper in town spits at the very mention of your name, and would rather wish a pox on you than tell me where you are. You didn’t think to leave word, you dunce?”

“A fine tracker you are,” Jaskier responded, paying no mind to Geralt’s prickly tone. He nudged the harlot beside him, who giggled. “I heard whispers that my oldest and dearest companion has been stomping about in Novigrad, and happened to be here at the Passiflora just last night. It is criminal to think I could have been part of the fun. But never mind your timing. Have a drink with us.”

The Witcher seemed to finally remember his manners, and turned his stony countenance to the narrow-waisted beauty on the couch beside him. Her name was Solani, and she was by far the most exquisite of the lot. “ _Ceádmil, Gwynbleidd._ ” She tucked a dark and glossy curl behind her pointed ear with a questioning look at the Witcher, who pressed a small purse of coins into her palm. An arrangement of some sort had been reached. Jaskier was confused and rather annoyed that the Witcher would jump on the closest girl as soon as he arrived. Was he being punished?

Solani gave a signal to her friends and the three got to their feet, almost as if it were choreographed. A fine dance this was, to leave him alone with no partner except this grumpy brute. Jaskier made a noise of discontent. “Oh, please, ladies. Stay. You’re breaking my heart!”

“Jaskier.” Geralt said sternly, and placed a hand upon his shoulder to stop him chasing the courtesans down.

“It’s all very well for you, you great oaf.” Jaskier shrugged away from Geralt’s grip. “Leave off with the scary face, you’ve already bought your bedmate. I don’t suppose you’d lend me a few crowns so I can head upstairs with the other two. After all, why pluck a single bloom when you can have a bouquet?”

The look Geralt gave him in return spoke volumes. It was the look he always gave the bard just before telling him to shut up, the world-weary Witcher at his wit’s end. “I met Solani last night,” he said, as if it were a satisfactory explanation.

It made a little sense. Superficially, she was the closest in resemblance to a certain sorceress of their acquaintance. Someone who Jaskier preferred not to think about. “So she holds a candle for you? Not surprising, given the skill with which you dip your wick.” Jaskier gave a small, bitter smile. He knew how it felt, to be enamored of this silver-haired monster of a man. As the endless weeks had passed here in Novigrad, he had spent his time torn between grief for Geralt’s possible death, and an irrational hope for his return. No amount of drinking or whoring had been able to clear it from his mind. “I will warn you, sampling the bounty of every whorehouse in town is not a healthy way to get over your lady love.”

“Lady love?”

“Yes, Geralt. Your dearest Yennefer of Vengerberg. Don’t go and tell me you’ve successfully fucked her from your memory, because I know first-hand that doesn’t work. Also, the girls tell me you were talking about her constantly last night.”

Now Geralt just looked confused, or possibly constipated. It was sometimes hard to tell with him. “I haven’t seen her for half a year, Jaskier. You were there, the last time.”

“She’s clearly still fresh in your mind, for you extolled her virtues at length. Something about roses of Nazair, a bewitching smile?” Jaskier reeled off the list of compliments one by one, slightly impressed at Geralt’s way with words when he was deep in his cups, and furious that Yennefer had been the one to inspire him. “The skin of a peach? A firm and round backside that would deserve poetry, were there ever a bard fine enough to write it?”

Geralt stared at him for a long, tense moment, and burst into laughter. It was frankly alarming, and Jaskier shrank back against the soft velvet of the couch. “Are you going to deny you said all that?” He asked, the words coming out in an indignant squeak. “And you think me so lacking as a bard that I couldn’t even write a poem about your paramour’s backside?”

At his words, Geralt only laughed harder. “As vain as you are, I don’t think even you could compose a ballad in praise of your own arse.”

Oh. “Me?” Jaskier fiddled with the lute in his lap, feeling a blush rising on his cheeks. “But… Bewitching smile?”

“Your smile can light up a room faster than the blast of an Igni sign, Jaskier. With far less chance of burning the building down.”

That was oddly specific, but Jaskier gave the Witcher points for trying. Despite himself, he felt a smile creeping onto his lips.

“There it is.” Geralt remarked, returning the smile. “And Nazair roses are the same blue as your eyes, did you know?” It took all of Jaskier’s self-control to stop himself from leaping into the Witcher’s lap right then and there, in the main parlor of the Passiflora.

“Beneath all those muscles, there beats the heart of a poet.” Jaskier said, instead. Awestruck and hushed. He could not drag his eyes from Geralt, feeling heat rising in his body.

“If I have the heart of a poet,” Geralt began, in a low and teasing tone, “I’m sure I could figure out something of mine to offer you in return.” He looked down at his own lap, and back up at the bard. Evocative, to say the least.

Out of the very corner of his eye, Jaskier saw the elven courtesan Solani approaching them. Jolted out of his perfect moment, he remembered the exchange of coin between her and the Witcher. “Geralt, at the risk of ruining your plans for the evening…” he began.

Solani tossed something small and shining at the Witcher, who caught it deftly. He waggled the key in front of the bard’s face before tucking it away. “She owed me a debt, and this is repayment in full. Just a room.”

“Here?” Jaskier glanced around them. It may have been luxurious, but it was a brothel all the same.

“You give me too much credit if you think I could wait until we get back to my lodgings,” Geralt explained, his voice rough. He adjusted his position on the velvet couch, clearly having some difficulty staying still. Jaskier could see the visible bulge between his legs, and tried not to think about how much strain this was putting on his high-waisted trousers. “Besides, Ciri is there, and it would raise too many questions.”

Jaskier felt as if he were trying to run behind a speeding carriage, never able to catch his breath. “Who’s Ciri?”

“Questions like that,” Geralt replied, grasping Jaskier’s hands in his own and pulling him to his feet. The contact between them, bare palms touching, was almost more than he could handle. He had no idea how he would cope once the two of them were naked. “Not the time, Jaskier. I am eager to see if silk sheets suit you as well as a mattress of rotting straw.”

Face to face, they lingered. Close enough to taste the air from each other’s breath. Hands still clasped together at their sides, radiating heat. This close, the Witcher smelled of sweet soap and clean skin. He had actually bathed, and recently. This consideration alone made Jaskier feel weak and giddy.

“Take me upstairs,” Jaskier said.

As they passed the bar, they drew a chorus of giggles and jealous sighs from the throng of waiting harlots. Jaskier had to admit, being an object of envy rather than ridicule was an aphrodisiac worth bottling.

“Oh, wait,” said Jaskier, effectively ruining the moment. “I left my lute behind.”


	2. Chapter 2

The room was sumptuous, draped in scarlet tapestries and sheer silk veils and lit with an array of sweet beeswax candles. It was worth the price for the bed alone, plush and high, laden with embroidered pillows of satin and velvet. Jaskier would sleep like a baby in that bed, should it come to that. He would have been happy enough to spend all night worshipping the wonder of Geralt’s finely-muscled form, exploring the slide of their bodies between those silk sheets.

Jaskier leapt on the Witcher as soon as he had closed the door, pressing him up against the solid oak and claiming his mouth in a vicious kiss. All these weeks he had waited for Geralt to return had honed his senses razor sharp, stoked the flames of his hunger. 

“I did everything you asked,” Jaskier said, punctuating his words with kisses down the curve of Geralt’s neck. Feeling the growls that echoed from his throat. “I hastened north of the Pontar, just as you said. Even as they spoke of the sacking of Cintra, the Battle of Sodden Hill, I stayed. Telling tales of your bravery, praising your name, all the while dreading it was an elegy for the dead.”

He fumbled at Geralt’s shirt, trying to untuck it from his trousers. “I heard a blanket of flame flooded the forests of Sodden, incinerating everything in its path. Sorcerers in battle, and the might of the Nilfgaardian army. And yet, I stayed. Because you asked me to.”

Geralt lifted his shirt and tossed it aside, leaving only the silver medallion upon his chest. His hands wound around Jaskier’s waist, pulling their bodies so closely together that the bard whimpered. The lute hanging across his back gave a discordant twang to commemorate the moment. “I would fight for you. I would die for you, Geralt. But yet, I stayed.”

“You would die for nothing,” Geralt’s voice was a low rumble of thunder, portent of a coming storm. He clutched blindly at the globes of Jaskier’s arse through his tight-fitting breeches. “And I wouldn’t allow it. I don’t dispose of my possessions lightly.”

Jaskier felt his knees weaken at the thought. To be owned, to belong. He knew he was Geralt’s, even if he knew the Witcher could never be truly his. “Don’t leave me alone again,” he whispered, desperate to sink to the floor, to release Geralt from his trousers and relearn his girth with lips and tongue.

Geralt released his grip on Jaskier’s backside and grunted with annoyance, pushing him away with great effort. “Take your bloody clothes off, Jaskier.” He said. “If I wanted to fuck you up against a wall I wouldn’t have bothered paying for a room.”

Jaskier stumbled away from him, more drunk with excitement than with wine. He discarded his elven lute on a nearby table. He kicked his shoes off as he worked on the various fastenings, buckles and buttons of his doublet, wishing for the first time in his life he had adopted a simpler mode of attire. His finery was fetching, but it certainly made things more awkward in the bedroom. In the time it took him to bare himself to the waist, Geralt was already reclining on the bed, entirely and majestically naked. 

The first time they had done this, Jaskier hadn’t gotten an opportunity to admire Geralt’s nakedness. Now, it was almost more than he could bear. It was stupid, really. He had seen the Witcher unclothed more times than he could count, as the man was hardly shy about his body. But every lingering glance was stolen. He never had the courage to look for too long, afraid that Geralt would see the lust burning in his eyes.

But here he was, stretched out upon the bedspread like some ridiculous wet dream. Jaskier gulped, unable to look away. He wriggled out of his breeches, a difficult task even without a full erection standing in the way. He only hoped he could get undressed before he came all over himself like an over-eager teenager. Finally, he peeled off his turquoise woolen hose. Geralt was watching him intensely as he undressed. Lazily stroking his impressive cock. Brushing his thumb across the head in a gentle teasing motion. It made Jaskier feel awkward and exposed, but also admired. Geralt was never effusive with praise, but his look said it all.

Jaskier crawled onto the the foot of the high mattress, devouring the sight of Geralt’s body with all the greedy delight of a poor country earl at a royal feast. He hardly knew where to start. Placing his shaking hands upon Geralt’s ankles, he began to trace a path up the tight line of his calves, the myriad of scars cutting across the canvas of his skin. Edging ever closer to the jutting curve of his cock, but far too enthralled with the journey to pay attention to the destination. 

“Jaskier, what are you doing?” Geralt sounded like he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or impatient at the troubadour’s slow and reverent ascent.

In answer, Jaskier planted a soft kiss on Geralt’s inner thigh. The skin was soft there, protected from the rigors of horseback by the firm leather of his armored trousers. Like a fine tapestry sheltered from the sunlight. Jaskier wondered if there were any other spots on his body that had escaped the wear and tear of a Witcher’s life. Moving up, he found a scar he had never seen before. Angry, red and fresh. “What’s this?” he asked, idly brushing his thumb over it.

“Ghoul,” said Geralt simply. “Amongst the stinking corpses of Cintra. Is this really the time? Battle fields don’t make good pillow talk.”

“I want to taste every scar,” Jaskier replied, planting another kiss on the shiny, taut flesh. “Every one is a tale. I want to learn you, head to toe.”

“You’re a bard, not some epic historian.” Geralt sounded like he was on the verge of losing his temper. Jaskier wondered what the Witcher would do if he kept talking. Would he flip him over on the mattress and fuck him until he screamed? Part of him wanted to find out, but he had already reached his next destination.

“I am a very skilled bard,” Jaskier said, mesmerized by the vision of Geralt’s prick in front of his face. “I can play near anything. Let’s see what kind of tone I can get out of this instrument.”

Jaskier grasped Geralt at the base, wrapping his entire hand around the silken heat. He stroked upward and pulled gently down, retracting Geralt’s foreskin to expose the bulbous head. Already shining with precum, tantalizing. Jaskier leaned over, licking tentatively at the moisture gathered there.

On the first lick, it was all salt with a hint of bitterness. On the second, Geralt tasted of sweat. Of leather, despite the loose linen braies he usually wore underneath his trousers. More than anything, he tasted of Geralt. The essence of him, distilled down. It was intoxicating, and Jaskier wanted more. He wrapped his lips around the tip, wet and warm, and sank down onto the thick shaft. He felt Geralt’s groan as he was engulfed, his muttered curses as Jaskier began to bob up and down.

Jaskier wondered how loud the Witcher could be, whether he could summon a note more enticing than a simple grunt. He fondled Geralt’s balls with his left hand as he stroked the twitching length with his right. A necessary counterpoint to the steady and swirling motions of his mouth, as there was no earthly way he could fit the entire thing in his mouth. His gifts didn’t extend so far, unless he wanted to choke to death. Suddenly, he licked up the underside of Geralt’s cock and swallowed around the head. Geralt gave a startled cry, almost a full octave above his usual register.

Jaskier released Geralt’s member, dripping wet with his saliva. He was tempted to keep fellating the Witcher to completion, but he hadn’t yet finished his exploration.

“Just how many cocks have you sucked, bard?” It seemed that Geralt was breathing a little heavier than usual, but he had an unnatural capacity for exertion.

“Are you implying that I’m a slut, Witcher?” Jaskier responded, a grin upon his swollen lips. He reached out his hands, tracing them up the lines of Geralt’s hipbones.

“Infamously so,” Geralt said, shifting his legs further apart for Jaskier to crawl between. “You can’t deny it.”

“I don’t,” Jaskier’s reply was nonchalant, fingers creeping up Geralt’s sides and brushing over the tracework of small scars. He didn’t seem to be ticklish there, or he was hiding it very well. “But to answer your question, relatively few. I just know what I like.”

Geralt gave a small hum of amusement. “So you know what pleases you.”

“You please me, Geralt.” Jaskier placed a kiss in Geralt’s navel.

Geralt laughed. “I recall you saying you were still trying to figure it out, back in the mountains.”

Jaskier had reached Geralt’s chest. “I figured one thing out years ago, at least in broad strokes. Can’t you tell when a fellow is flirting with you?” The bard closed his lips over Geralt’s left nipple and bit down as hard as he dared.

Geralt grunted, but didn’t throw Jaskier off him. “What the fuck?”

“You’ll let any filthy beast mark your skin, and I’m not to join their ranks? Over time, your scars are your only mementos. If I mark you, at least you won’t forget me.” Jaskier smirked and lowered his head again, teasing the red ring of teeth-marks around Geralt’s nipple with his tongue. 

The Witcher had finally had enough. He lifted his hips to throw Jaskier off balance, and shoved him sideways onto the bed. As Jaskier toppled, Geralt vaulted over him and pinned his hands in place above his head. Jaskier gasped with shock and excitement, finding himself completely immobilized by a very heavy and horny Witcher.

“How could I forget such an insolent brat?” Geralt whispered harshly, and nipped at Jaskier’s earlobe. His silver medallion, warm from the heat of his skin, brushed against the bard’s shoulder. “Maybe I should leave my own mark on that peach-soft skin of yours.”

“Gods, yes.” Jaskier tried to thrust his hips upwards, trying to create some kind of friction against his aching hardness. Both of their cocks were trapped between their bodies, sticky and wet. Even so, Geralt was too muscular and solid to be moved. Jaskier found himself more aroused than annoyed at his own helplessness. Geralt wanted to be in control, obviously. Such a strong, manly man.

“Maybe later,” the Witcher growled. “I let you mess around for long enough, now it’s my turn.” 

Jaskier strained his head upwards, trying to plant a kiss on Geralt’s lips. He failed. “If I’d known my turn was so short, you would’ve been well and truly fucked by now.”

Geralt grinned. “That doesn’t speak well of your stamina,” he said, “but maybe. Later.” His eyes blazed down at Jaskier, yellow irises ringed with red. Strange and inhuman, but endlessly compelling. He pushed his pelvis forward slightly. Just for a moment, long enough for his cock to slide briefly against Jaskier’s throbbing length. Long enough for Jaskier to utter a high wailing noise. 

“Fuck, Geralt. Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it. Anything.”

“Maybe I want to stay right here,” Geralt replied, moving again in a slow grind. “Keep on rutting against you, see who can hold out the longest.”

The friction against his cock was infuriatingly slow, but Jaskier already knew he’d lose. It may have had something to do with the fantasy that Geralt was enacting, and the low growl of his voice. “And then?”

“When you come first, I’ll hold you down and fuck your over-sensitive body until you do it again.”

“What if you come first?” Jaskier breathed, wishing he had his hands free to grasp at Geralt’s firm buttocks, his back. Every part of him.

“To the winner goes the spoils.” Geralt chuckled, lifting his hips slightly to snake one hand between them and wrap it firmly around Jaskier’s cock.

Geralt was a filthy cheat, clearly. He wouldn’t gamble on a wager he couldn’t win. “No fair,” Jaskier tried to say, choking on the words as his pleasure built into delirium. He went rigid, eyes rolling back into his head as Geralt’s urgent ministrations brought him closer and closer to the edge.

With a guttural moan, Jaskier reached his completion, spurting ropes of hot seed onto Geralt, onto himself. He barely even realised he had lost the gamble before Geralt flipped him onto his belly and moved between his legs. “Do you submit?” the Witcher asked, giving him the chance to respond.

“Yes.” Jaskier’s word was muffled by the bedspread, his whole body still buzzing with the aftershocks of his orgasm. His cock kept rubbing against the sheets and sending fresh tingles up his spine. 

Geralt slapped him on the buttock, but it offered only a mild sting. “Lift up that firm round arse of yours.” 

Jaskier complied swiftly, rising up onto his shaking knees. Geralt wrapped an arm around his waist, holding him up as he used the other hand to slick up his glorious sword with a mixture of saliva, sweat and Jaskier’s spend. One slippery finger slid inside Jaskier, circling around the puffy rim in a way that set the bard’s nerve endings alight. 

Geralt pressed the blunt, broad head of his cock against Jaskier’s entrance as the bard began to babble a litany of pleas and prayers into the bedspread. It was too much. It was not enough, never enough. Finally, Geralt began to push inside. Pain was overwhelmed by pleasure, and pleasure by pain. Jaskier felt as if his soul were being torn from his body, and he loved it.

A few tentative, shallow strokes were all it took for the pleasure to take over. The feeling of fullness intensified as Geralt moved deeper, faster. Burying himself inch by magnificent inch. Just when Jaskier thought he could handle no more, Geralt drove himself deeper. The room was filled with the sound of slapping skin, the Witcher’s soft grunts and Jaskier’s erratic breathing.

It was everything Jaskier remembered, and it was so much more. Sweat dripped from his skin as Geralt continued to fuck him briskly and roughly. His spent cock was aching, dripping onto the bed with every jolt of their coupling. The angle of Geralt’s thrusts brushed against some sensitive spot inside him, and the sensation increased the pressure in his groin. He was approaching another high, and it was as excruciating as it was ecstatic.

With a hoarse cry, Jaskier came again. His body jerked, his mind shattered into a thousand glittering pieces. He tried to cry for mercy, but couldn’t speak. The Witcher had stolen his voice as surely as the djinn’s malicious curse, so many years ago. 

Geralt thrust once more, burying himself to the hilt as he reached his own shaking climax. He folded himself over Jaskier’s body and lowered them both to the bed, sweat-soaked and satisfied.

“I think I’ve gone blind,” Jaskier said eventually, once he could form words. Geralt snorted and rolled off the bard with evident fatigue. He felt thoroughly and pleasantly used, sore in a way he wanted to remember for the rest of his life. “Have you ever blinded someone with ecstasy before?”

Geralt only gave him a sleepy grunt in reply. Perhaps he had stolen all of Geralt’s words with his own prowess. He turned his head, staring at the Witcher’s profile as his vision cleared.

Jaskier knew this moment. He’d lived it before. As his heartbeat began to settle down and he started to feel the chill of sweat drying upon his skin, he was unable to escape a feeling of dread. He wet his chapped lips with his tongue. “Is this the part where you tell me you’re leaving again, or does that come in the morning?”

Geralt blinked, and allowed his head to roll toward the bard. His expression was pensive. “In the morning I’m taking you to meet Ciri, or she’ll have my hide.”

Jaskier sighed. “And Ciri is…?”

Geralt reached out, brushing hair from Jaskier’s eyes with a fond gesture. “Princess Cirilla of Cintra,” he replied, simply. “My charge. My child surprise.”

“Oh.” Jaskier was enveloped in a cloud of confusion. "A girl."

“You’ll like her, she’s almost as headstrong and stubborn as you are. I’ve told her a lot about Jaskier the bard, and I don't doubt your growing fame as a minstrel has reached Cintra.”

Jaskier smiled, twisting his body to face the Witcher fully. “I’ll be pleased to meet her royal highness,” he said.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Geralt said, his smile faltering. “We’ll follow the river Pontar to Kaedwen, then head north to Kaer Morhen. It will be a long journey.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said again. Here it came, the inevitable parting.

“My priority is keeping her safe from Nilfgaard, and Kaer Morhen is the best place for that. Old Vesemir will be thankful for the company, and she’ll be thankful for some training.”

Jaskier swallowed, his throat dry. He gazed into Geralt’s strange eyes, committing him to memory. Perhaps he wouldn’t have another chance. “And then?”

“Snow will start falling shortly after, so it would be better to winter there than brave the mountain passes. Settle in, take some time to regenerate.”

“That’s…” Jaskier did some mental arithmetic. He spent his winters in much sunnier climes, and had no idea how long a northern winter could be. “Three months?” 

“Four, maybe five until the snows melt.” Geralt said. 

It was worse than Jaskier expected. They had gone long stretches of time without seeing each other before, but half a year of solitude was a hellish concept after all they had said and done. His eyes glassed over with tears that wouldn’t quite fall, and he looked away lest the Witcher think him weak.

“Do you have a warm cloak?” Geralt asked. “I could find something for you in a pinch, but it wouldn’t be as fine as the rest of your wardrobe.”

“What?” Jaskier blinked away the tears, unable to comprehend Geralt’s question.

“I just thought you might want to visit a clothier or a fur trader before we leave Novigrad, or you’ll freeze before we even reach the Witcher’s trail.” He smirked. “Have you ever seen a real winter, bard?”

Jaskier almost sobbed with relief. “I’ll weather any storm, if you let me stay with you.”

Geralt kissed him then, swift and bruising. “You’re mine, Jaskier. I thought I had made that clear. If I promise you won’t leave my side, would you believe me?”

“Of course,” Jaskier said, and pressed his forehead against Geralt’s. Blue eyes meeting Witcher eyes, neither blinking lest the other vanish. “I’ve never known destiny to be a liar.”

Geralt smiled broadly and openly. “Good.” Their noses brushed, their breath mingling. “Now get some sleep, and maybe you’ll have time to fuck me before we have to head to the guesthouse.”

“The heart of a poet,” Jaskier said, pressing his hand against Geralt’s chest and feeling the steady beat therein. He closed his eyes.

“Just dream of all the things we can do to keep us warm all winter long,” Geralt said, and it was the last thing Jaskier heard before he slipped off into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics for the elven ballad "Elaine Ettariel" Jaskier sings in the beginning are as follows, translated in _The Time of Contempt_
> 
> "To adore you is all my life  
> Fair Ettariel  
> Let me keep, then, the treasure of memories  
> And the magical flower;  
> A pledge and sign of your love.  
> Silvered by drops of dew as if by tears..."
> 
> It's a gorgeous song, and you can get a sense of the vocals, at least, on the Witcher original game soundtrack. A choral version is on the Witcher 2 Soundtrack.
> 
> Hope you liked! Love you all! <3


End file.
